The Witchhunter and the Knight
by chiqa215
Summary: A tale of conflicted rebels and reluctant heroes that spans time and provinces.
1. Chapter 1: Riverwood

A continuation of a story that began in Cryodiil. Same title, and I promise it will make sense. I will try my best to update regularly; I hope you enjoy. Comments are much appreciated.

* * *

"Still chopping wood, eh? I'd think her arms tired by now."

"Still at it. The lass is tireless," Ralof replied to his sister's husband.

"The coin helps, too. I paid her fair for the pile she brought in this morning. She's stronger than she looks. The wood was split even, through and through." Hod swigged at his tankard, still watching the girl.

"You should have seen her in Helgen. Leapt down a full story with her hands bound. I thought her leg broken for sure. But then we ran for the keep and she was right beside me." Ralof left out that he had waited for the girl while hiding beneath a displaced thatched roof to avoid the Imperial soldiers from whom they'd barely escaped with their lives.

"Aye, I believe it. Gerdur likes her, I can tell," Hod said.

Ralof was surprised, but pleased. The pillar of Riverwood, his elder sister owned the mill that served as the small village's lifeblood and which supplied most of the lumber for Whiterun hold. Gerdur was well respected throughout the hold—no small feat for a Skyrim woman—for both her business sense and judge of character.

Ralof watched the girl set her axe in the tree stump and begin collecting the fresh logs. They'd spent the first few days holed up in Gerdur and Hod's home when the threat of an Imperial raid was greatest, or so Ralof had assumed. After three days with no activity on the roads, he and the girl emerged from his sister's cellar filthy and squinting, but free. Still clad in his Stormcloak cuirass, he'd quickly changed to simple farmer's garments so he could leave the house without drawing undue attention to his sister's family. Riverwood lay in Imperial territory, although many in the hold were sympathetic to the rebels' cause.

Silently, he'd wondered about the girl's political loyalties but she never offered an opinion. At Helgen, when the terrible monstrosity had attempted to kill everything in its path, she'd donned the Stormcloak regalia Ralof threw at her without hesitation, her prisoner's garb in charred tatters. But later, escaping through the bowels of the keep's prison, they stumbled across the tortured body of a young mage. Before he could ask if she'd known the man, she'd stripped him of his robes and potions. Later, emerging from a sewer grate into the harsh sunlight, she covered herself with the robe, pulling the hood tight around her face. Ralof wasn't offended; he assumed she understood the dangers of wearing Stormcloak armor outside friendly territory. Both covered in dirt and blood, they made it to Riverwood by sunset. Gerdur, overjoyed to see her only sibling, immediately took to the quiet young woman standing behind him.

Privately, she'd asked Ralof about her, of course, but her brother had little more information than the obvious, which was that she'd been caught and imprisoned during the ambush that had sent his garrison and their king to the Helgen execution yard. Now, weeks later and without cause to believe the Imperials were searching for Helgen's fugitives, he wondered how long she would stay in Riverwood.

* * *

She knew she needed to leave; most importantly, she needed to separate from Ralof. He'd saved her life, it was true, but he was dangerous—a fugitive, and a rebel. When she was first taken prisoner with the Stormcloak garrison at the Cyrodiilan boarder, she assumed there would be a fine and perhaps a short jail stint—all she'd taken was some game and a single Legionnaire's coinpurse—but very quickly it became clear that they saw her as one of the rebels, as a traitor. She'd spend the first and last night of her capture in terror, kept awake as much by the knowledge of the penalty for treason as by the insidious remarks from Legion soldiers who promised to make her last night on Nirn one she wouldn't forget. She sat up all night, her hand clenched around a shard of rock. At dawn, it was a crushing relief to be ushered onto the prison wagon and away from the lecherous soliders, even knowing its final destination.

"You're going to put me out of a job, Siri," came a newly familiar voice from behind her.

Faendal strode up beside her with an armful of lumber. "Hod paying you a fair price, I hope?" He set the logs down with a thud.

"Aye. Maybe too much," she replied. "I'll be making my way out soon, though."

"Well, not too soon, I hope. I'm sure Gerdur is overjoyed to have Ralof home."

It took the young Nord woman a moment to realize the Bosmer believed she and Ralof were traveling together. Or, even worse, that they were tied together.

"I've no doubt she is. I don't know Ralof's course, but in any case, I shan't overstay my welcome." Before Faendal could respond, she flashed him a quick smile and hurried back to Gerdur's house.

That night, Gerdur approached her as she bedded down by the hearth. The woman's kindness was a small miracle to Siri, both for its quiet sincerity and lack of judgment. She hadn't asked about the girl's crimes, even knowing she was no Stormcloak. In the weeks since she'd been the woman's guest, Siri had come to appreciate that the respect her host commanded in Riverwood was not derived from intimidation or wealth, but from moral consistency. Gerdur was the type of person Siri both resented and longed to be, and was therefore always somewhat ashamed to be in the woman's presence.

"We'll miss you here, Siri. Are you sure you want to leave so soon?" Gerdur asked softly. Hod and Ralof were still at the table, merrily entertaining the couple's young son.

"Aye, I should be moving on. I don't want to bring any more trouble to you or Riverwood." Before Gerdur could protest, Siri quickly added, "And I have commitments to which I must attend."

The older woman nodded, too polite to pry. "You are always welcome back. We'll never forget what you did for Ralof."

Siri smiled again, her eyes cast down. Ralof's exaggerated insistence that she'd saved his life in Helgen was troublesome—she wondered if he meant to use it against her in some way. In truth, he had saved her life and they both knew it.

Not used to thanking others for unmitigated kindnesses, Siri cleared her throat. "Gerdur, I owe you and Hod…so much… I don't know where I would have gone had you not opened your door to me. So…thank you."

"No need to thank me, lass. You are as welcome here as my own kin." She paused then, causing Siri to stiffen. "There is something I need to ask of you, though. I wouldn't ask it unless there was no other way, but I fear for the people of this town. We are totally unprepared for any kind of attack, especially…especially like what happened at Helgen." Although Siri was sure everyone by now knew what had occurred, no one spoke it aloud. It was too incredible, too horrific.

"What can I do?" Siri asked softly to Gerdur, and to herself.

Gerdur's pale blue eyes locked on the girl's own. "Go to Whiterun and tell the Jarl we require additional guards for protection. News of Helgen must have reached the city by now; you won't need to reveal why you were there. I would send Ralof, but his face is known to Legion spies. His ranking in the Stormcloak army is…higher than he may have let on." Having witnessed Ralof's prowess in battle, Siri was not surprised by this. "I am sorry to ask this of you, Siri."

The Nord woman's sincere confliction shamed Siri more than she could have imagined. Here she was, a fugitive and a nomad, being asked by a respected citizen to carry forth a duty that might save lives. She wanted to tell the woman that anyone else in the town would be better than her, even the milk drinking pretty-boy bard at the Inn, or Gerdur's own young son for that matter. But she didn't. With all of the meager courage she possessed, she held the woman's gaze.

"I'll get the message to the Jarl, Gerdur. You have my word."

Gerdur's relief was plainly visible. "Thank you, lass. I knew I could count on you."

* * *

The next morning, Siri stood on the mill dock watching dawn's first light creep over the mountains. Hod had given her a map and good directions to Whiterun; she was fairly certain she'd make the journey by nightfall. So lost in thought was she that she failed to hear Ralof approach until he was beside her.

"All packed up?" he asked quietly.

"Aye. Your sister insisted I take this knapsack." She grimaced. "Your family is too generous."

"Aye, that they are. But they are glad to know you." He paused and looked at her seriously. "Gerdur told me what she asked you to do. Will you be safe in Whiterun?" Like his sister, Ralof was too good to ask what crimes had led her to Helgen. Siri knew this was another reason she should trust him, but for some reason she feared his intent.

"I believe so. If news of Helgen has reached the Jarl, no doubt he'll be more concerned with that than with one lowly fugitive," she joked.

Ralof smiled but didn't laugh with her. He glanced back toward the river, where the sun's rays flashed against the rushing water. "I'll be making my way back to Windhelm as soon as I'm able. I hope you'll think about doing the same."

She paused, thinking about the man for whom the entire rebel cause took its name. The man whom, it was said, had killed the previous High King by shouting him to pieces. A man who, equally revered and loathed for his unapologetic nationalism and disregard for any culture other than the Nord way of life, had been with them at Helgen. This man, considered the true High King by his followers and a traitorous insurgent by the Empire, had fought the unimaginable horror without hubris or a seeming second thought right alongside the besieged villagers. But what Siri would never forget was his order to Ralof to take her through the escape tunnels to safety before even his own soldiers. Holding her stunned gaze with a single piercing glance, he'd simply said, "Be sure this one lives."

She had no doubt Ulfric Stormcloak had made it out of Helgen and back to Windhelm without harm.

Looking over at Ralof, she attempted to respond to his entreaty. "I don't know that I am Stormcloak material—"

"I think that you are."

She knew he meant this as a compliment. She nodded, appearing grateful. "I will keep it in mind, I promise."

Ralof smiled again and nodded, though they both knew that she was not going to Windhelm. "Well, I had to be sure to remind you."

Siri laughed, making a move toward the steps. "Ulfric Stormcloak could always use more recruits, eh?"

Ralof smiled, but his eyes were serious. "Yes, but that's not why I think you should join us." Siri looked up at him, questioningly.

"If you don't go to Windhelm, how else will I ever see you again?"


	2. Chapter 2: The Tundra

The ice cracked beneath her feet and Siri slowed her pace, fearing a fissure ahead. Wind whipping from the surrounding cliffs bore down, forcing her head bowed and challenging her strength. The snow had picked up; she could see barely ten paces in any direction now. During the daylight, the tundra plains of Winterhold were simply dangerous, but on nights such as this, they were utterly treacherous.

Emerging from the cave not long before, all sense of time had been lost; she had thought it much earlier in the day than it quickly proved to be. In her quest for the helm she had become sidetracked, then overwhelmed, by what she found dwelling inside. The necromancers had been a surprise, as had the vampire. Her novice skill with destruction magicka was helpful, as was the blade she used to pierce at least one heart. However, there had been more than she could match—so many more—and she had fled after recovering Winterhold's precious artifact. The Jarl would be pleased no doubt, and would pay a fine reward. But this storm, and the late hour—she had not anticipated any of it.

Siri did not see the gully until it was too late. Her shock at the ground suddenly disappearing beneath her feet caused her to thrust forward—the worse possible reaction—and she fell, hands outstretched, onto the ice embankment. Clawing desperately in an effort to stop from sliding headlong into the rapidly approaching cliff face, she screamed, despite knowing there was no one to hear her. But she was falling too fast, and the momentum was too great.

The impact with the rock took her breath from her so efficiently that she thought her neck had broken. Collapsing into the snow, she became instantly buried up to her shoulders in the runoff from her one-woman avalanche. She gasped, then choked and eventually a measure of frigid air entered her lungs. It burned like frostbite and at that moment, she knew she was dying.

How had she arrived here? What had brought her to such a loathsome depth of existence that she had agreed to a treasure hunt for some nobleman's hubristic quest? All her motivation, all her efforts to erase the life she scorned had brought her to this moment where she would die, alone, entombed beneath the ice in a land to which she seemed eternally bound. No one would ever find her and no one would ever mourn her passing, because no one would ever be looking.

Regret, misery…it was all the same. She was just another novice to be lost to the ages; even at the College they would scarcely notice her absence. Or they would think she had skipped town purposefully, just like Isabelle Rolaine. Closing her eyes, she could still see the woman's naked, lifeless form huddled against the cave wall, pitiful in its defenselessness, shocking in its reality. Now no one—including the lover Isabelle had abandoned—would ever know her fate, would know she had done what she did out of love and desperation.

Siri was faintly aware of the numbness in her limbs beginning to radiate unnatural warmth, burning her toes and fingers. Perhaps if she slept now, the snow would loosen and she could dig her way out later…

Like a rush of water bursting through a spring thaw, suddenly she was free. Still paralyzed from the cold, she was unable to move when her face became submerged in an icy stream somehow unfrozen. Sucking in the chill, she felt her lungs scream for air.

Then, just as suddenly, she was on her back atop the ice staring upwards, raggedly breathing in the thin air. Her vision blurred, she could faintly discern twin green jewels hovering above her, brilliant against the frenzied white background of the blizzard that had already begun to bury her again. Her last thought before losing consciousness was that at least she had something pretty to see before she died.

* * *

Pain, heat, hunger. She felt the three sensations so acutely that it was hard to imagine having ever experienced anything else. Sweat ran in chilled rivets down her forehead, coating her neck and plastering her hair. Where was she? She could see nothing. Terror rising in her gut, for a moment she feared she had been buried beneath the snow and the burning of her body was deadly frostbite. This devastation was abandoned when she stretched her fingers to find herself encased in fur and hide blankets. Also, burnt cedar—the smell was everywhere. It made no sense. The last thing she remembered was the relentless snow, and of being consumed by it.

And the jewels. She would never forget those.

"Oh good, you're awake."

To hear another's voice was so shocking that she would have cried aloud had her throat not been dehydrated to the point of silence. Instead, she managed a feeble gasp accompanied by a jerking motion that sent shockwaves through her body so severe she nearly lost consciousness again. She tried desperately to scan the inky blackness for the source of the voice, but still nothing was visible. As she mentally raced through every possible location that could produce such a total absence of light, an alternative flickered in her mind.

Perhaps she simply could no longer see.

"Oh, don't do that. You need to rest," said the stranger. A woman. young, like Siri herself, from the sound of her voice. "You must be parched; wait just a moment."

Busy noises—the sound of pouring water. A hand touched her head and she inched forward. Never had water tasted so satisfying. She drank greedily until she felt the flask depart her lips.

"Not so fast, you'll make yourself sick."

She wanted to protest, but knew the stranger was right. Had this woman saved her? She felt it must be so, but the mounting terror over her possible blindness paralyzed her speech. She lay still, hoping the stranger could not perceive her weakness.

"Good thing I was out when I was, or I would never have found you. Storm is the worst one yet this year. It'll be like this for days, I imagine." From the sounds, the stranger seemed to be concocting something. The distinct grinding of a pestle and hiss of an alembic were unmistakable.

"This will help with the pain." The woman's hand gently guided her head upright to drink from what felt like a glass tincture. She sniffed the mixture and was greeted by the sweet scent of honey; upon consumption, however, the floral notes did not mask the potion's chalky bitterness.

"Oh, I apologize, I should have warned you. It's quite a potent tonic. You should feel better soon." As the stranger drifted away, the sweet fragrance followed her.

Though she had no way to know if the woman meant her harm, Siri cleared her throat in an attempt to find out. "Thank you," she whispered.

The stranger took a moment to respond. "You are quite welcome. I'm glad to hear you finally speak."

"Where am I?"

"My home. It's not much, but you are safe here, I assure you."

"It is…quite warm in here…"

"Ah, yes!" Siri could almost hear the smile in the stranger's voice. "The health draughts work best with elevated body temperature. It should be absorbed by now, though; I'll move the embers." More commotion, then an immediate temperature drop which brought instant relief.

"There we are. If you become chilled, just let me know."

"Thank you." Siri wondered from where the stranger hailed. Her speech, though clearly accented by the Nord tongue, was distinctly foreign.

"May I ask your name?" the stranger said.

There was no point in lying. "Siri. Who are you?"

"You may call me Nettie. Are you hungry?"

Siri was surprised the woman did not ask her surname, given the mysterious circumstance by which she had found her. "No, I think I'd like to sleep." She was starving, but did not want to risk giving away her blindness by attempting to eat. The woman did not respond, and after a time during which neither spoke, Siri thought the woman must assume she was asleep. But then, the stranger began to talk very quietly:

"When I was about your age, I was forced to rely on the assistance of a stranger whom I did not trust. This individual saved my life and never expected anything in return, and my foolish sense of self-importance almost prevented me from expressing my gratitude."

Before Siri could assure the woman that she was indeed grateful to her, the stranger continued. "What my savior did not know at that time, and what I myself could not have understood in order to provide a warning, was that I should never have been saved. Not because I am evil or had committed a terrible crime, but because of what allowing me to live meant for many others later on. Sometimes, sacrifices are misguided attempts to redeem ourselves from within, and we do not think to question the meek because we have been taught that those who are defenseless are harmless. But if there is one thing that I have learned in my considerable years, it is that an individual's meekness can be the finest cloak with which to hide their insidious intent to do harm." She whispered in the young Nord's ear, "Do you intend to harm me, Siri?"

"No," Siri whispered back, aware of her lie.

"Then I will restore your sight, but you must do your best not to scream."

Before Siri could wonder why her savior might request such a thing, let alone begin to comprehend how the woman had blinded her, she was cruelly hit with sudden illumination, and her vision flung wildly about in a desperate attempt to establish the situation and to fool herself into believing she had control over her life.

The only thing the restoration of her vision served to do what make her instantly regret the stranger's power to blind, for it became immediately obvious why her sight had been disabled. Crouched at her feet was a bent figure whose hunched posture served only to undermine its inherent viciousness. Sinewy muscles knotted at the joints produced an emaciated kind of savage that every man, upon meeting one of its kind, knew to appeal to Stendarr's mercy for a quick death, for the alternative torture for which the creature was known could not be undone by any Divine. Black talons dripped from its limbs, serrated on the underside for sawing through flesh. Lank hair spilled from an unnaturally high forehead, grossly highlighting the creature's deeply lined face in which twin emerald-colored eyes regarded her gravely. How she could have ever found those eyes—the eyes of a hagraven—becoming, Siri could not say.

There was no possibility of escape or of bargaining. Whatever the hagraven had planned for her, she was powerless to its depraved will. Slowly, it began to smile, a gesture made all the more repulsive in its physical display by the sinister intent of its possessor.

Despite her resolve to show no weakness, and her desire to follow the creature's prior command if only for sake of self-preservation, Siri heard herself screaming, and could not stop.


End file.
